“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Jess,” Noah finally responds.
He hands me a glass of Prosecco.
“I don’t like to play games.” He holds my gaze, then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Before I can block it, the notion flutters into my mind that I’ve just passed a test. I wouldn’t have had this thought a few weeks ago.
I take a sip of Prosecco. The tangy, sweet bubbles feel welcome against my throat.
“I’m glad you’re being honest now,” Noah finally says.
You must be honest . . . that was one of the instructions waiting for me on the computer screen when I first entered the survey. Even when I’m consciously trying to dislodge Dr. Shields from my mind, she finds a way to sneak back in.
Noah starts to lay ingredients neatly on the counter and I take another sip of Prosecco. I still feel like I owe him a bigger apology, but I don’t know what else there is to say.
I look around his small, gleaming kitchen, noting the heavy cast-iron pan on the stove next to the green stone mortar and pestle and a stainless-steel upright mixer. “So, is Breakfast All Day your restaurant?” I ask.
“Yep. Or it will be if my funding comes through,” he says. “I’ve got the space picked out, just waiting on the paperwork.”
“Oh, that’s really cool.”
He cracks eggs with one hand, then whisks them in a bowl while he pours in a drizzle of milk. He pauses to swirl foaming butter around in a griddle pan, then adds cinnamon and salt to the eggs.
“My secret ingredient,” he says, holding up a bottle of almond extract. “Not allergic to nuts, are you?”
“Nope,” I say.
He stirs in a teaspoonful, then sinks a thick slice of challah bread into the mixture.
When the bread meets the pan with a gentle sizzle, a mouthwatering smell fills the room. There’s nothing better than fresh bread, warm butter, and cinnamon cooking together, I realize. My stomach growls.
Noah’s a tidy cook, cleaning as he goes: The eggshells are dropped into the wastebasket, his dish towel dabs at a few drops of spilled milk, the spices are immediately returned to their drawer.
As I watch him, it’s as if a buffer forms between me and the tension I’ve been carrying around. It isn’t gone, but at least I’m getting a reprieve.
Maybe this is the kind of Saturday night date a lot of women my age experience; a quiet evening in with a nice guy. It shouldn’t be that remarkable. It’s just that we’ve already kissed, yet tonight seems more intimate than a physical act. Even though we randomly met in a bar, Noah seems to want to get to know the real me.
He pulls place mats and real cloth napkins out of another drawer, then reaches into a cabinet for a couple of plates. He slides two pieces of golden-brown French toast onto the center of each plate, then sprinkles fresh blackberries on top. I didn’t even realize he was warming the syrup in a saucepan until he ladles generous spoonfuls atop it all.
I stare down at the food he serves me, feeling a wash of emotions I can’t easily identify. Other than my mother when I go to visit, no one has cooked for me in years.
I take my first bite and groan. “I swear, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
An hour 1ater, the bottle of Prosecco is empty and we’re still talking. We’ve moved to the living room sofa.
“I’m going to Westchester to see my family for Hanukkah later this week,” he says. “But maybe we can do something Sunday night when I get back.”
I lean over to give him a kiss and taste sweet syrup on his lips. As I rest my head on his solid chest and his arms wrap around me, I feel something I haven’t in months, or maybe years. It takes me a moment to define it: contentment.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Saturday, December 8
Thomas arrives five minutes prior to the appointed time. Punctuality is one of the new habits he seems motivated to adopt.
His broad shoulders fill the doorway as a smile spreads across his face. The first snow of the season has just begun to fall, and sparkly crystals cling to his sandy hair. It’s a bit longer than he usually wears it.
Thomas offers a bouquet of red ballerina tulips and is thanked with a lingering kiss. His lips are cold, and he tastes like mint. His hands move to deepen the embrace as he prolongs the intimacy.
“That’s all for now,” he is told as he is playfully pushed away.
He wipes his damp shoes on the mat and steps into the town house.
“It smells delicious,” he says. He looks down briefly. “I’ve missed your cooking.”
His coat is hung in the closet next to the lighter jackets he wears in the warmer weather. He was never asked to remove those particular items from the town house, and not only because he moved out so abruptly. Springtime symbolizes hope, renewal. The presence of his belongings served the same purpose.
He is wearing the sweater that brings out the gold flecks in his green eyes; he knows it’s a favorite.
“You look beautiful,” he says. He reaches out and runs his fingers so gently through a long, loose wave of my hair that his touch is barely discernible.
My taupe and lavender fabrics have been replaced by black suede jeans and a cobalt-blue silk camisole, but only a hint of color is visible beneath a thigh-length black cardigan made of fine merino wool.
Thomas takes a stool at the granite island with the built-in cooktop. The oysters are on ice; the bottle of champagne is retrieved from the refrigerator.
“Would you?”
He sees the label and smiles. “A great year.”
The cork gives a gentle pop; then Thomas fills two slim flutes.
A toast is offered: “To second chances.”
Surprise and pleasure collide on Thomas’s face.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me.” His voice is a shade huskier than usual.
A slate-gray shell is lifted from the ice and tilted toward him. “Hungry?”
He nods as he accepts it. “Starving.”
The lamb is removed from the oven to rest on the counter. The potatoes just need a few more minutes; Thomas prefers them on the crispier side.
As champagne and oysters are savored, conversation flows easily. Then, just as Thomas is carrying the platter of lamb to the dining room table, a loud chime sounds. He sets down the tray and reaches into his pocket for his phone.
“Do you need to get that?” It is vital that the question carries no hint of reproach.
Thomas merely returns to the kitchen and places his phone facedown on the island. Inches away from the torte.
“The only person I want to give attention to now is you,” he says.
He moves away from the phone to bring the decanted red wine to the table and is awarded with a sincere smile.
Thomas’s flowers are placed in the vase in the center of the table. Candles are lit. Nina Simone’s sultry voice fills the air.
Thomas’s wineglass is refilled twice. His cheeks grow slightly flushed; his gestures more expansive.
Thomas offers up a bite of his lamb: “This is the best piece.”
Our eyes lock.
“You seem different tonight,” he says, stretching out his hand.
“Maybe it’s us being together back in the house.”
He is awarded another brief kiss, then contact is broken.